her crowning glory
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: AU. The laws are clear: to be crowned Queen of Eala, a princess has to be married. Emma has a month to find a husband, or else the crowd will be snatched from her and given to the only other heir to the throne, one Killian Jones.
1. Chapter 1

She stands out like a sore thumb in the house, barely daring to sit on the couch or even move in fear of breaking something, anything. Everything looks expensive – hell, one vase alone would pay her future college tuition for a year – and Emma finds herself wondering for the hundredth time what she is even doing here.

She pushes her glasses up her nose and watches as a woman enters the room, all pretty dresses and professional smiles as she presents herself as "Belle, personal secretary" (the _fuck_?) and leads her to the gardens. As beautiful and expensive as the living room, of course, with wild colourful flowers and perfectly sculpted bushes. Emma is so used to the small apartment she has shared with Granny and Ruby all her life that she doesn't know how to react to all that space – what do people do with those big houses, seriously?

Not that she has much time to ponder on the question.

"Emmaline."

She turns around at the soft voice and replies "Emma, just Emma," out of habit even as she looks the woman over. Her face is as soft as her voice, with cropped black hair and an all-too familiar look, although Emma can't exactly place it. The woman's smile is kind too as she grabs Emma's hands in hers, pressing softly. She fights the urge to jerk away from the touch.

"Emma it is, then. Come, it's tea time."

The table on the patio may be lovely and the pastries may look tasty, but Emma is too focused on insulting Granny in her head, for forcing her to meet this woman for no other reason than _because I say so_, to actually care about tea time as she settles down in one of the seats. Still, Granny didn't raise no fool so Emma places the napkin on her lap and is careful not to put her elbows on the table – the woman, despite her soft features, looks like the kind to care about those things.

A waiter comes to pour hot water in her cup (a freaking personal waiter!) and she takes a few (long) seconds to stir her tea before dwelling on a "Soooo?" she hopes not to sound rude but straight to the point.

It seems to work on the lady.

"Emmali – _Emma_. Have you ever heard of Eala?"

Emma only needs a moment, the name ringing a bell from hours trying to learn by heart all the European countries and their capitals for a geography test last year. "The tiny country between France and Spain."

She doesn't need the woman nodding to know it's the good answer, but smiles proudly anyway at her own knowledge, even if she has no idea what that has to do with anything else – it's just a little patch of land stuck between two much larger countries, so what?

"Then you might also know Eala is a monarchy. As it so happens –" The woman coughs, almost nervously. "I am Mary Margaret Blanchard, queen of Eala. And… I'm also your mother."

Pause.

Emma bursts into laughter.

The kind that leaves her breathless and rocking back and forth on her chair, cheeks aching from too much smiling as she snorts on the air in less than elegant noises. But gosh, Ruby outdid herself on that prank, and Emma both wants to slap her and hug her for how intricate the whole thing is – renting a house and an actress for the day, _really_? It'll teach Emma to switch her red hair dye for green, that's for sure. She barely manages a sarcastic "yeah, right" before she falls into another fit of giggles as she looks left and right, waiting for her best friend to jump out of her hiding spot at any moment. But Ruby doesn't show up and the woman facing Emma remains stoic, arms stiffly folded in front of her on the table, just waiting for what seems like an obvious knee jerk reaction – like the woman isn't all that surprised, like she expected it to happen somewhat, the disbelief.

Her laughs die at the back of her throat.

"Oh my god, you're not joking."

"Emma…"

"_Oh my god_."

The familiar features of the woman's face make sense now that Emma looks more closely – she recognizes her own chin in hers, the same shade of green of their eyes, hell, even their mouths look similar. She seems young, too, but it doesn't come as a surprise to Emma – in her wildest dreams, her mother had mostly been pregnant with her as a teenager, never older than eighteen. It made sense to her then, and it still makes sense today.

It's the only damn thing that actually makes sense.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she hisses, leaning forwards with her elbows on the table – more offensive than defensive a stance, perhaps. But she has every right to be offensive, to be pissed and confused and lost because – because nothing else about this situation makes sense. Granny had never explained in details why she had been the one raising Emma and not her parents, only some vague excuses about it being complicated, that there was no other choice than for Emma to live with the older woman and her granddaughter.

'Complicated situation' for her had always meant teenager pregnancy and an obvious lack of money – both logical and understandable. You cannot really resent your mother for wanting what is best for you, after all. But now, a queen? An obviously well-off, educated, clearly not unemployed homeless queen?

Emma's world and convictions have been turned upside down in a matter of minutes.

The queen winces at the swear word but thankful doesn't comment, instead raising her hands in surrender. "I can explain. Just listen, _please_."

But Emma doesn't want explanations. She doesn't want pretty lies wrapped into royalty wrapped into sixteen years of abandonment. It's too late for that already, and nothing the woman – her _mother_, damn – can say will change that.

"What do you want from me?"

For Emma wasn't born yesterday – after a lifetime of radio silence, the woman might want something from her if she is here. It is anything but a simple visit, or else Granny wouldn't have forced her to attend without an explanation. Granny isn't that cruel, she would have softened the blow, would have prepared the ground for Emma to be mentally ready for the truth bomb. No, it all sounds messy and hurried, it all sounds like an emergency.

"I – the doctors found out I was infertile last month. You're my only child. You're the legal heir – the _only_ heir to the throne."

Emma's laugh is high-pitched, borderline on hysterical. "Yeah sorry, I'm not here for that princess nonsense."

That seems to upset the queen but, really, if she expected sympathy for the baby-making part, she obvious barked up the wrong tree. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows set into a frown, lips pursed in a pout as she ponders on her next words. Still, no amount of thinking makes her "Your country needs you. I need you" okay in Emma's mind.

"You need me? Well, that's rich coming from the woman who didn't give a fuck about me for _sixteen years_." The queen opens her mouth, but Emma doesn't leave her the luxury of a reply. "Where were you when _I_ needed _you_? Where were you when I had nightmares, when I needed help with my homework, when I got my heart broken for the first time? Why should I help you when you were never here for me?"

She is on her feet before she even think of standing up, hands pressed against the table as she leans forwards, glaring at the woman in front of her. She needs to leave, now, all her instincts screaming for her to run, run and never look back.

"Find yourself another princess. This one is already busy."

And run she does.

…

"I now proudly present this year's Harvard Kennedy School of International and Global Affairs graduating class."

The crowd of students breaks into loud clapping and even louder cheers as they jump to their feet, throwing their caps up in the blue summer sky. It's a warm day and Emma feels like suffocating in her black gown, but someone suddenly pulls her into a hug and she soon forgets that minor detail as she celebrates with her friends, with a great many hugs and kisses and improvised dance moves, selfies taken and posted on Instagram in a matter of seconds. It feels like goodbye – it _is_ goodbye – but the melancholia of the moment doesn't make her sad. A chapter of her life is closing only for another one to begin.

Her friends are begging her to write, _okay, I know you'll be busy but don't forget us_, when she is pulled into yet another hug. Granny's arms are familiar around her shoulders, and she gives the old lady a watery laugh before hugging her back, hiding her nose in Granny's neck and taking a deep breath. More than anything, she'll miss that perfume, perfect mix of coffee and flowers and freshly cooked pancakes, that perfume that lingered in their apartment for so many years.

"I'm so proud of you, my darling girl."

Granny's habitual firm voice is wavering with emotions, enough for the tears to finally spill out of Emma's eyes as she presses a kiss to the old woman's cheek with trembling lips. They'll meet again soon enough – Emma's twenty-first birthday is in October and Granny will fly to Eala for the coronation that will follow – but it doesn't make leaving the woman who raised her any less painful.

Leroy's hand on her elbow forces her to let go of Granny's tender embrace, a nod from the head of security all Emma needs to follow him through the crowd with one last 'I love you' mouthed to Granny and a handful of waves and quick hugs to her friends. Leroy's hand rests on her arm all the way to the parking lot, where a car waits to bring them to the nearest airport. He opens the door to her, and only then does he smile at her – this tight smile of his that always seems forced and sarcastic but warms his eyes and whole face.

"For the record, I'm proud of you too."

"A compliment, really?" she teases back. "Armageddon is near."

He hushes her inside the car with a bark of laugh and headshake then closes the door behind her and goes sit next to the chauffeur.

It's barely more than a twenty-minute ride from the university to Boston Logan Airport yet Emma's eyes don't leave the scenery outside the window for a second, as if trying to commit everything she sees to memory one last time. Chances are she will not be back to Boston any time soon – if ever – and like everything else, she'll miss it. It was home for twenty years, after all, and even if her summer visits to Eala were pleasant ones, she knows it will take time for the small country to become _home_.

Leroy jokes about her not changing in the car _for once_, and she smiles at the memories even as she doesn't look away. She will have enough time to change in the plane, after all, what with the ten-hour flight awaiting her. And indeed, it is only a matter of minutes before the car reaches the airport, bypassing the main entries and making its way to the smallest, non-commercial runways until it stops in front of the Ealan private jet – so small compared to the other planes, yet more comfortable than any first class on any company.

The trunk is opened, Leroy grabbing her large suitcase, by the time Emma gets out of the car – another one is already stationed there, surely with the rest of her stuff both from Granny's apartment and her dorm room. It's a lot of suitcases, but all her life is packed in there, giving a sense of finality to the whole day. She closes her eyes and sighs, chest heavy with the last deep breath of American air she takes.

(She is overdramatic, she knows.)

Inside the jet are only a handful of seats, large and comfortable, facing a television screen on the wall leading to the bathroom. On one of them rests a fluffy ball of white fur, and Emma makes a beeline for it, lips curved into a grin as she coos her dog's name. Ava barely opens an eye at her owner's presence, lazily wagging her tail before going back to sleep – a royal dog through and through.

On the seat next to her pet are a hatbox and a small carry-on bag – Leroy is thoughtful that way. She decides now might be as good a moment as every to finally get rid of her gown and slip on more comfortable clothes, while the fly attendants are still loading her suitcases and getting the plane ready for take-off. She opts for a long summer dress, letting her hair fall from its intricate braid and getting rid of her make-up and high heels. By the time she settles into a seat, Ava on her lap, they are ready to go.

She quickly finds herself dozing in and out of consciousness, ten-minute naps then trying to follow the movie playing on the television – some action flick Leroy is so fond of for reasons she'll never understand – only to fall back to sleep for the night soon after. She's one of the lucky people to actual be able to sleep on a plane, and so she takes advantage of that talent, knowing she needs her rest, if only because she can't afford being jetlag when a ball will be thrown for her during the following evening.

She is shaken out of her sleep by Leroy's hand on her shoulder and a soft "Your Highness, wake up. We're about to land." (At least, as soft as Leroy's voice can be, which isn't _that_ soft.)

Emma rubs the sleep off her eyes as she sits straighter before leaning towards the window. And there it is, miles and miles of fields between two mountains, green and vibrant in the morning sun. Her lips curl in a smile at the sight, at the little dots of blues and whites as the plane flies over small lakes and small villages. Eala, _her_ Eala, so close, welcoming Emma in its warm embrace – all nostalgia and sadness gone for now, only the thrill of the moment running through her veins. _Home_, she thinks, even if the word is empty of its meaning for now.

It will change soon.

It takes less time to land than it did taking off, and soon she finds herself grabbing bag and dog, large hat on her head protecting her eyes and face from the unforgiving Mediterranean sun. Rightfully so, as all she feels when they open the door is _heat_ – the wind on her face warm, the sun in the sky blinding, the air hot and suffocating in her lungs.

A chuckle escapes her lips, soon followed by a longer fit of giggles.

Once on the tarmac, Emma lets go of Ava – who happily starts running to and fro after too many hours not moving – and reaches into her handbag until she finds her phone.

"Here, take my picture," she asks Leroy as she hands him the device.

Wind comes to the party right when the chief of security is about to immortalize the moment, and so Emma finds herself looking away as she holds on to her hat, hair flying around her face, huge grin on her lips. It makes for a beautiful picture, very Grace Kelly, and Emma snatches the phone back so she can post it on Instagram.

(The royal councillors were wary of the idea at first, the crown princess playing girl next door, but quickly changed their mind when it was pointed out that it only made her more popular and loved by the people. She still doesn't understand what is so fascinating about her posting pictures of food or Ava, but she plays along anyway.)

"Can we go now?" Leroy asks, doing a poor job of hiding his annoyance at her antics.

She almost wants to bother him a little while longer, for the heck of it, but thinks better of it if only because she is famished and wouldn't say no to a warm bath right now. So, putting her phone back in her bag, she nods and follows him to the car waiting for them a few feet away.

It is yet another half-hour ride to the royal castle, and Emma feels reckless by then, barely hiding her joy and relief at finally making it to their destination. She is barely out of the car that the queen appears by the main doors, looking slightly dishevelled (Emma doesn't put it past her to have woken up only minutes before). She stumbles down the stairs, neither quite regal nor graceful in that moment, before wrapping Emma into a tight embrace.

"Hello, Mother," she whispers, overwhelmed by the unexpected display of affection.

When Mary Margaret lets go of her, it's to grab both her hands in her, tears spilling out of her beautiful eyes. "I am so glad to see you, darling."

Her voice sounds equally gleeful and relieved – after all those years, she still expects Emma to get out of dodge at any given opportunity. It would hurt, if it weren't based on facts. So she only smiles and hugs her mother once more.

"I missed you too."


	2. Chapter 2

I've had worried people (and one nasty anon, no thanks for that) asking me about David. While this chapter provides the beginning of an answer, did you really think me so cruel as to kill him off? I love myself some Daddy Charming, I couldn't keep those two away from each other even if I wanted to! So, yes, we'll see what happened, even if the story will mostly focus on Emma's relationship with her mother, which is why I didn't list David as a main character (yet, maybe?)

People also asked about the time gap between the first chapter's two scenes. My goal isn't to focus too much on that, but there will be more flashbacks along the way, and many clues as to what happened will be dropped here and there. I hope it won't be too difficult to understand, but the story isn't as eventful as the first Princess Diaries movie was anyway.

Without further ado, I want to thank you all for the reviews, favs and follows. Truly blew my mind! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much!

* * *

Even as the corset hugs her waist almost painfully, Emma finds herself swaying her hips, delighted with the way the skirt pools around her legs, moving in waves of red satins with each movement of her body. The dress is beautiful, far from the clothes she's used to wearing, especially with the addition of long white gloves and the delicate tiara resting against her intricate up-do. She almost doesn't recognize the woman she sees in the mirror, more used to Emma, American student, than Emmaline, Ealan crowned princess. A sight still foreign to her, yet one she'll have to live with for the rest of her life. The thought makes her sigh.

"You look lovely, Your Highness."

Belle stands in the doorframe of the bedroom, headpiece curled around her ear and huge smartphone in hand, a kind smile on her lips as she takes in the princess in front of her. Emma smiles back, even if the curve of her lips lacks confidence as anxiety slowly creeps inside her belly.

She's yet to be used to those social gatherings, to mingling with lords and barons, members of government and duchesses. So a ball thrown in her honour, where all eyes will be on her and where she is no allowed a single mistake? Ever the bravest would worry, and Emma wishes for her jeans and leather jacket – her armour more effective on her confidence than the gown she's wearing, no matter how pretty it is.

"Will he be here tonight?"

Thankfully, Belle is intuitive enough to know whom Emma is talking about, and so doesn't need details before answering the question. She also goes straight to the point, with a simple "No" that has Emma's smile faltering on her lips. "He hardy, if ever, comes to such social gatherings. His lord father, on the other hand, will be here tonight." There is a small pause, before Belle adds, like an afterthought, "You'd better not talk to him."

That much Emma knows. Not that she'd willingly start a conversation with the man to begin with – Lord George Nolan seems like a dreadful person, never smiling and always throwing nasty glares her way, like she suffers from some contagious infection. Emma has learnt to simply ignore him.

Still, it doesn't stop disappointment from mixing with nervousness within her at the knowledge that her meeting with the younger Lord Nolan still isn't for today. So with a loud huff that says a lot about her state of mind, she puts on her bravest face, straightening her back and raising her head, as she follows Belle out of the room and through the castle's hallways. The path from her bedroom to the ballroom isn't a foreign one, but the empty hallways are a sight to behold, usually full of guests and servants, guards at every corner. It makes for a silent trek, the clicking of her heels on the marble floor and the buzzing of Belle's phone the only sounds echoing against the walls.

Around the last corner, the soft sound of music and chattering come to her from behind closed doors, guards standing on each side of the large doorframe. They slightly bow to her when she comes in sight before putting their hand on the iron handles, waiting for their cue. Belle busies herself with her phone, whispering a small 'two minutes' to them that has Emma's heart pounding faster against her ribcage.

She takes a large inspiration, gathering her wandering thoughts. She'd been part of the drama club in high school, mostly because Ruby had forced her hand, and had landed a role in their rendition of My Fair Lady. But the nervousness she had felt on the first night, waiting for the curtains to open, was nothing compared to waiting behind the wooden doors. Especially when the ballroom falls silent, music and discussions dying at once to leave place for her mother's speech.

"Thirty seconds," Belle says and, on cue, the trumpets start playing and Emma's heart breaks a hole through her ribcage.

The majordomo announces, "Presenting her Royal Highness, Emmaline Eva Ruth Blanchard, Princess of Eala." The guard open the door then and, after taking a deep breath, Emma makes her entrance at the top of the grand staircase.

The ballroom at her feet is full, men in suits and women in colourful dresses, carrying glasses of champagne – but, mostly, all staring at her. She forces a smile she hopes natural and friendly on her lips, even if her cheeks hurt with the effort, and offers her a small wave.

Her mother, breathtakingly beautiful in her pale blue dress and golden crown, raises her glass to her. "To Princess Emma," she says, and people all around her raises their glass too, sharing the toast with her.

It's all kinds of awkward to Emma, and she's certain her cheeks match the crimson of her dress by now, but she accepts it all with a curt nod before walking down the marble stairs, careful not to trip even if she can't stare down at her own feet. When her heels find the floor, she heavies a sigh of relief – the worst is behind her. Or so she tries to convince herself.

Mary Margaret pulls her into a hug, brushing a kiss against Emma's cheek as they share gleeful smiles – their relationship may still be rocky at best, but they both know how to put on a poker face in front of an audience, and nobody would know better by watching them act like the perfect mother and daughter they're supposed to be.

Still, as conversations start again and the attention is no longer on her, Emma downs the first glass of champagne she comes across, hoping the bubbly drink will ease her nerves. No such luck, it seems, so she does a mentally check of her smile – still in place – and her posture – still perfect – before moving toward the first person she sees to greet them, as is expected of her.

By the time a woman wearing a dark dress and a scowl introduces herself as Baroness Cora Mills, a younger voice interrupts them with loud "Emma! Hey Emma!"

With a polite apology for the woman, Emma turns around in time to see a small figure fighting its way through the crowd, pushing and shoving them aside without any trace of remorse. Sparkling brown eyes and pretty dimples appears in front of her before she's pulled into a childish hug, and Emma can only laugh at the overwhelming display of affection.

"Well, hello there, Roland."

He has grown since the previous summer, and she remembers fondly how tiny and shy her was when she first met him five years ago. He shares his father's confidence now, almost smug from all of his nine years of age and looking quite the dashing young boy.

"Daddy says you will have to dance with all the egili – ebilige – elibi –"

"Eligible men," she helps him, barely able to swallow down a laugh. This kid is the cutest.

"Yes, that." He flashes her a grin, all dimples and white teeth. "And I don't have a girlfriend yet, so I'm it!"

The laugh bubbles out of her then, and she kneels down to plant a kiss on his cheek, leaving a beautiful trace of lipstick there. Roland blushes, even as he stands taller and prouder – her heart melts.

"Yes, that one is your son through and through," comes a voice behind the kid.

Emma stands up to greet the couple coming closer, her smile growing more sincere at the sight of Robin, the Prime Minister, and his wife Marian. The beautiful brunette looks at her son with a shake of the head, but both look quite amused at their boy's antics.

"Oh my god, familiar faces at last," Emma sighs in relief as Robin bow and kisses the back of her hand before Marian pulls her into a hug, both laughing.

She had met them before even being introduced to the press and the world as the crown princess, and had immediately grown fond of the couple. Perhaps it is because they are of lower birth compared to everyone else in the room, or perhaps it is simply in their nature, but the Locksleys are less snotty than the usual member of the royal court, pleasant and charming. They had been the first to welcome Emma in that crazy world of theirs, teaching her everything her mother wouldn't think of, and she will forever be grateful for their kindness and patience.

Also for their son, obviously.

"Come," Robin says as his puts her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I will introduce you to the members of my government."

There is no way in hell Emma will remember all those names at once, but she does her best as Robin leads her from one person to another with the ease of many years spent as the Prime Minister. Still, some names stick out in the princess's mind: Anton at the agriculture, Archibald for the foreign affairs, Kathryn as the head of the justice department. The others, Emma will have to learn along the way – her mind is already a mess as it is, anyway, the champagne not helping in the least. Yet, even if their names elude her, Emma takes an interest in each and every one of them, knowing all too well she will have to work alongside the government in only a couple of months. So she asks about every department, about the future projects they have, both nationally and internationally, taking an interest in everything she is told.

Emma is offered a brief respite when the sound of shattering glass can be heard from the other side of the room, followed by a loud "Locksley!" Barely hiding a grin and a roll of the eyes, Robin excuses himself with amused words about his munchkin and _I can't take him anywhere_.

Him gone, Emma finds herself alone for the first time this evening, and the need to just sit down and slip off her painful shoes is strong. Sadly for her, the night is still young, and it is but the beginning – many a young man still lines up, waiting for the ball to begin so they can share a dance with her. Such a prospect annoys her but, much like a friendly behaviour towards the members of government, she knows it to be essential. It is her Royal Court, after all, the people she will mix with all her life – she can't afford to be unloved.

"Belle?" she asks over her shoulder. The secretary appears at her side immediately. "How many members of the government are left?"

"Only one. Lady Zelena, over there," she replies with a discrete nod to a woman in a vibrant green dress. "You're doing great so far."

Emma flashes the brunette a smile before making her way towards the other woman. Her red hair is as vibrant as her dress and, when she turns around to face the princess, so are her eyes, blue like a cloudless sky. Everything, from her slender frame to her warm smile, makes her beautiful, and she offers Emma an elegant bow, grin growing bigger by the second.

"Lady Zelena, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness."

Her voice is melodious on top of everything else, and Emma wonders how such a woman, obviously part of the nobility if her title of a lady is anything to go by, could find herself into a political career. Not that there is anything wrong about that, mind you, Emma is actually quite grateful for the number of women at the head of Eala, far from the governments full of greying old men other countries are used to. Still, she would have picture a woman such as Zelena as the perfect party animal, not as a politician. But to each their own, after all.

"Excuse me, but I didn't catch which department you're the head of?"

"Oh, it's quite all right, You Highness," she replies with another one of her smiles. "I take care of everything that has to do with the health of the Ealan population. Health care, hospitals, scientific research and the likes."

An important department as any, especially with how efficient Emma knows it to be – it is quite the novelty for her to be at the head of a country with free health care, after having spent all her life in the United States. She is proud of Eala for spending more money on health and education than it does on its military forces, and knows she'll have to get along well with Lady Zelena if she wants things to run smoothly for years to come.

So, with a nod and a smile, she asks for more information about their research labs and the projects they're working on at the moments, as well as their hospitals. Eala may be a small country, but owns two of them, and Zelena goes into great lengths explaining that they have one of the most modern and developed paediatric yards in Western Europe, with renowned doctors within its walls. That's how Emma learns that, more than a politician, the lady is first and foremost a paediatrician, beautiful voice lulling her into tales of her years as an intern.

In the middle of one of those stories, another arm snakes around Emma's, startling her. When she looks to her left, it's to a more familiar mane of red hair and equally familiar green eyes. The newcomer puts her chin on Emma's shoulder like she just belongs there, the princess's lips curling into a grin as Lady Zelena finishes her sentence without even a pause – it doesn't come as a surprise that others are used to the girl's antics.

"But I speak too much. I'll leave you to your party," Zelena finishes, then adds with a bow, "It was nice meeting you, Your Highness. Lady Ariel."

Another bow before backing down with the same elegance she had when speaking, leaving Emma and Ariel to stand next to each other, silent for a few seconds.

"What an interesting woman," Emma whispers after a while, more to herself than for Ariel's sake.

"I know, right?" Another pause before the redhead offers her a high-pitched squeal and hugs her tightly, to which Emma can only laugh in reply. "I missed you!"

The feeling is mutual, of course – Ariel is, after all, Emma's longest Ealan friend, daughter of a close friend of her mother's. The girls had met the first summer Emma had spent in her tiny country, hitting the beaches with Ruby almost every day when they weren't partying. A schedule they kept every summer from then, Ariel introducing Emma to other children of the nobility and to the most beautiful parts of the country under the warm Mediterranean sun.

If the light sunburn kissing her nose and cheekbones is anything to go by, Ariel still hasn't lost her love for the beaches of white sands and the colourful cocktails that come along with it. Good, Emma thinks, she'll be able to take a break away from the castle if needed. But such break will have to wait for, hand in hers, Ariel is already pulling her towards another side of the room, speaking in hurried whispers of all the gossips Emma missed during the past year, before they reach their group of friends. She then finds herself pulls into many a hug, happy to see them all again – Mulan, in her traditional Chinese outfit, Aurora and her snide comments for the older guests, Eric with his arm wrapped around Ariel's waist.

Emma feels herself breathing again for the first time since she entered the ballroom, her smiles taking a more natural edge, her laugh free and loud. She almost forgets the context of such a meeting, or that her friends all wear titles that would have made her dizzy a few years ago. It is her life now and, if she forgets Aurora is a Duchess of all things, it doesn't feel any different from hanging out with her college friends to celebrate the end of midterms. It just comes along with more expensive clothes (with pieces of jewellery Aurora begs her to post on Instagram) and champagne instead of beers.

Perfectly casual.

"Lord Pompous is here," Mulan says all of a sudden, curtailing Aurora and Ariel's discussion about Kate Middleton's latest outing.

In perfectly synchronized movements, they all turn to the person Mulan is watching, standing by the other side of the room. In his black tuxedo and with a scowl on his face, Lord George isn't without reminding Emma of the Baroness she met earlier that evening – they would go well together, she thinks bitterly.

"Look at him," Aurora whispers only to be heard of her friends. "King in the castle."

That forces a smirk out of Emma, the comment all too accurate. He looks down at everyone around him like the aristocrat he is, one of the many reasons she despises that man she has never even met. That sense of superiority, especially when surrounded by people as wealthy and powerful as he is, is one Emma cannot tolerate – and, thankfully, one not many members of the court share, even if many of them are condescending in their own ways. But there is something about Lord George, about everything he represents, that doesn't sit well with her.

"I need a drink", she says, to nobody in particular.

"Coming with you," Mulan adds.

Emma is grateful for her friend's presence at her side and for her quiet demeanour – she likes Aurora and Ariel all right, but their attitude is over-the-top more often than not, borderline on nosy, and nothing she needs right now. When they reach the bar, Mulan asks a waitress for two cups of champagne while Emma doesn't waste time, stuffing two amuse-bouches in her mouth without ceremony.

"Have you any plans of meeting –" Mulan starts, handing her one of the cup.

But she doesn't get to finish her question, Emma downing the glass the only reply she needs on the sore subject, so the Chinese girl offers her an understanding smile and a pat on the shoulder. At least the champagne settles down warmly in her stomach, easing some of her discomfort – still, she wishes for a stronger alcohol like vodka or, better, rum. None of which are served tonight.

"Okay," she says with a sigh, squaring her shoulders once more. "Let's go back to the others."

But she doesn't get to make a single step towards her friends for when she turns around on her heels, it's to collide against someone's chest, strong arms snaking around her waist immediately so she doesn't lose her balance.

When she looks up, all she sees are deep blue eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Her first thought is 'oh my god, I'm going to fall in front of the whole government', which isn't that pleasant a thought to begin with. One of her heels, too high, too unstable, just slips on the marble floor and she feels herself falling backwards with no mean of stopping the inevitable. She's going to end on her ass, she's going to embarrass herself in front of all those people, and there is nothing she can do about it.

She even hears the beginning of a gasp coming from Mulan – and it says it all, that she managed to have her gasp when Mulan is usually so stoic and unfazed.

But it happens just like in the movies, one hand grabbing her elbow while the other snakes around her waist, stopping her fall and keeping her in place against the chest she just hit. Emma is the one to gasp then, the outcome so unexpected she doesn't know how to react, if only to still in her saviour's arms in fear of making things worse by moving the tiniest of fingers.

She looks up to the man, only to gasp once more – somewhat more discreetly, for which she's both proud and thankful – because his eyes are the most vibrant blue she has ever seen. Deep and clear like the sea on a summer day and, oh, _of course_ his face – his everything else, really – would be handsome too. Because that's just her luck, being saved by handsome lords from an inevitable embarrassment.

"Your Highness, are you all right?"

His English is lilted with the heaviness of his Ealan accent. It brings a shiver down her spine, and she feels like a fool for such a reaction. It is but a pretty voice on a handsome face, after all, no need to act like a blushing schoolgirl who doesn't know better. So she schools her features, hoping against hope that her feelings were not written all over her face – if Mulan's cough, soft and amused, is anything to go by, she failed miserably.

"Yes, yes. Thanks you."

She stands straighter as to prove she says the truth, but has to put her hands on his chest to do so and – yes, she is definitely blushing by now. He only gives her a smile, more of a smirk really, but is gentleman enough not to offer further comments on the subject and instead lets go of her in careful movements. She ignores how cold she feels all of a sudden, without his arm around her. It is such a stupid thought, after all, not even worthy of her time.

Not that Emma has that much time to ponder on it, for she hears her mother calling after her. She only breaks eye contact to turn towards the sound of her name, before she looks at the man in front of her once more, offering him an apologetic shrug. He replies with a pout and a tilt of the head, as if to say 'it's okay, I understand' – it's almost alarming, how easy it is to communicate with him without using actual words.

It shouldn't matter – it _doesn't_ matter, and so she forces herself not to throw a last glance at him over her shoulder as she makes her way towards the queen. She does look for Mulan, though, and isn't all that surprise to see Ariel and Aurora pounce on her the moment the handsome stranger loses himself into the crowd. A smile appears on Emma's lips at how gossipy her friends are.

Smirk that disappears with only a few words in her mother's mouth: "It's time to open the ball, darling."

She'd almost forgotten about that trivial detail. Not that she can avoid it now, for the band in a corner of the room change their tempo, from quiet background music to something louder and lively. She can't escape this, and yet has no one to dance with – the prospect of asking a perfect stranger among the crowd of suitors, while mandatory, is unappealing at best. That is, until she feels a hand on the small of her back, pushing her towards the dance floor. A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she looks up to the man next to her.

"_You_? An eligible bachelor?"

Eric offers a soft smile of his as he puts a hand on her waist. "Officially, yes."

Emma snorts at that – for as long as she's known Ariel, Eric was always by her side. They are those high school sweethearts Emma had only heard of in movies and books, never believing them to actually exist in the real world. And yet here they are, cute as a button and so deep in love with each other it makes her jealous sometimes, craving what they have. They just make it seem so easy, despite Ariel's eccentricities, when Emma knows it is nothing but.

"Speaking of which," Eric adds as he makes her twirl – he's a good dancer, but she can't afford to truly appreciate when other men after him might be dreadful at it. "She will probably ask you to be her bridesmaid in a couple of weeks."

"Oh my god!" It's louder than wanted, and high-pitched too, so other dancing couples around them throw glances their way, to which Emma replies with an innocent smile. Still, she beams at Eric right after – even when living on different countries, Ariel had made sure Emma knew of her disappointment of not being proposed on their anniversary a few months back. "Do you have the ring?"

"I do indeed. Aurora helped me choose it. Which of course means Aurora tried to make me buy the biggest, most expensive diamond in the shop…"

She manages a discreet laugh this time – the picture so vivid in her mind, for Aurora is the 'girly girl' of their little group, always up for a shopping session. Not that Ariel wouldn't mind a big rock on her finger, come to think about it – she's in love with everything shiny and pretty, after all.

Emma wants to add something along the line of _well I'll probably hear her scream from a mile away when you ask_, but the song ends at that exact moment, her mouth pursed into a sad pout at having to find a new dance partner. The whole idea sounds useless to her, having to dance and flirt with all the single men in the room – all in the name of decorum – when she'd rather spend her time with her friends. But her eyes meet her mother's among the crowd, and Emma doesn't dare crossing that line tonight, instead letting go of Eric's embrace with one more sigh.

As dreaded, the whole thing becomes rather awful rather quickly. Not that all men are bad dancers, mind you – though she stops counting how many times some step on her foot after a while – but rather because all of them are as dull as a brick. You'd think that, being able to travel around the world and have the most extravagant hobbies, those men would know how to hold an interesting conversation.

Of course they don't.

The small talk is even worse than the dancing – yes, she does enjoy it here in Eala (would wouldn't?); no, she is not planning to go back to the United States any time soon (why would she?); thank you, she finds him rather pleasant too (a beautiful lie wrapped in a careful smile). They tell her about them, of course, about their family and estate and jobs. Emma has never taken part in a speed dating even before, not for a lack of Ruby trying to force her, but she guesses right now is a more expensive version of the thing. And she hates every second of it.

She hates how forced it looks, like they're pushing her into a relationship, like they're just telling her to pick a man and stick to it. She knows many a royal couple started as an arranged marriage – she knows it all too well – and yet Emma had hopes this would happen to her, for some reason. How wrong and naïve she was.

It blows out of proportions with the guy who doesn't speak a single word of English and yet keeps talking to her in a French too fast for her understanding – she studied Spanish in high school but, gosh, French was never part of the plan before she realised her country shared a border with the country. Or with the guy who insists on using animal metaphors, and which girl in her right mind doesn't want to be compared to a deer or a bird?

Or the guy who, despite his best efforts, couldn't dance to save his life. Even if she's been dancing for a good two hours now, Emma relishes in the fact that this is about the last one on her list of suitors for the night, and that she'll be able to a well-deserved break after that – she can't wait to stuff herself with food and champagne while Ariel babbles about everything she has witnessed in the meanwhile. But the man is awful, his body stiff as a plank of wood, apologizing every few second for stepping on her foot or leading her the wrong way, and she wants to put a stop to the dance here and there, if only to pull the poor guy out of his misery. Because it's obvious he's enjoying it as little as she is, staring at his feet, mouth pressed into a thin line and coat of sweat covering his forehead. She would even feel bad for him, were it not for her patience running low by the second.

Still, before she has time to stop this nightmare, or even open her mouth, another man's hand grab her partner's shoulder – it only takes a matter of seconds for the two to bow to each other and for her to switch partners, and then she's drowning in deep blue eyes again.

_We've got to stop meeting that way_.

"My saviour," she whispers, pouring enough sarcasm into the words not to show how relieved she actually is – not that she needs to sound sincere anyway, when the emotions must be written all over her face. _Again_.

"A princess always needs her knight," is his reply, along with a smirk and a wink – it would be infuriating, not to mention sexist, were it not for the gleam of happiness in his eyes. "I'm glad I could be of any help, Your Highness."

"Emma, actually. Her Highness is my mother."

He only blinks at her at first, as if taken aback by this more than informal introduction, before settling into a soft, less cocky, smile. It suits him, she notes, makes him less arrogant all of a sudden, enhancing his handsome features.

"Emma it is, then."

He says that like tasting the name, with the slightest hint of reverence, and only then does she realise how close they are – closer than with any of the other men, chests almost brushing, his hand high enough on her back for the fingers to press on the bare skin above the hem of her dress. She fights hard to repress a shiver, knowing well that he would feel it against his fingertips.

"I'm Killian."

So simple, no surname and no title – _just Killian_.

She likes that.

She especially likes the way he makes her twirl – she closes her eyes at first, dreading the worst after the night she spent, but she settles back in his embrace delicately despite her negative thoughts. That curls up her lips, even more so when she sees Ariel not so subtlety giving her two thumbs-up behind Killian's back, her friend obviously delighted with that turn of events. Not doubt Emma will have a hundred questions thrown at her face once she is done with this dance.

Not that she's planning to stop this dance any time soon, mind you, not when she's actually enjoying herself for the first time since dancing with Eric.

"You know," he adds, and she looks back to his eyes – still so blue, urg, _the worst_. "Most men might find your silence off-putting. But I love the challenge."

Emma scoffs then – despite the soft eyes and smiles, of course he's as handsome as he's arrogant and smug. Like most lords are, she's learnt quickly enough through the years. "I'm concentrating on the dancing, if you hadn't noticed."

Which is a lie, but he doesn't have to know that.

"No, you're not." Another snort, followed by a pointed look, to which he replies, "The point of this ball is to find you a new beau. And you're against the idea, rightfully so may I add. So you refuse to open up, because it leads to knowing the person, which leads to getting attached. Not to mention it would please your mother a little too much. And we can't have that, now, can we?"

Emma only catches herself gapping when it's too late, terror most likely pouring out of her every feature before she has time to school her face back into a neutral emotion. Her heart beats faster against her ribcage, verging on painful at that point, and she opts for taking a step back with the firm idea of stopping this dance and never standing next to him ever again. Not that he leaves her this luxury, hand pressing firmly against her spine as to pull her closer to his chest, fingers tightening their hold on her hand.

But there is nothing frightening or possessive about the way he looks at her, only… understanding? This can't be right.

"It's all right," he whispers, a little too close to her ear for her liking. It brings a shiver down her spine and, this time, she's certain he may have noticed it. "Your secrets are safe with me."

She doubts so, but it's not as if she's in any position to fight against it – it's not like she can go all medieval on Killian and throw him in the dungeons of the castle. Or ask Leroy for snipers to get rid of him before tomorrow morning, no matter how appealing the idea might be at the moment. So she only focuses on taking deep breaths and evening her heartbeat instead, trying not to let a panic attack overcome her while there are still so many people in the room. Once she's back to her own bedroom, maybe, but not now.

"How did you –"

He doesn't let her finish, which only adds to the frustration building inside her. He doesn't _need_ to let her finish, already know what she is about to say. This Killian, whoever he is, is dangerous and she needs to avoid him at all cost. Her life is already too complicated, her responsibilities too great, to entertain the idea of letting her into her life and past the walls she so carefully built around her heart when she was only a teenager. Killian is danger, a danger she can't afford right now.

"You're somewhat of an open book," he says at first, as if it is enough of an answer – it isn't. "It's been five years, yet you still have that look in your eyes. The one all orphans share."

She jerks her head back to stare at him. This definitely isn't funny anymore, not that it ever was to begin with. Leroy had warned her, and she'd always been careful of the friends she'd made, the parties she'd attended, the things she'd post online. Still, for this guy to know so much about her, to know something she never even put into words… Emma refuses to believe it is a mere coincidence, refuses to believe someone could have such a good grasp of her inner thoughts after only five minutes next to her.

_Great_, she thinks, _I have a stalker_.

But the longer she looks at him, the more confused she gets, for he doesn't look away from her, his eyes even in the emotions they show, and doesn't miss a step as he leads her across the dance floor to the sound of the violins. It must be their second song by now, but neither of them finds it in themselves to care when engaged in such a staring contest, reading each other's soul.

And what she reads… Well, yes, that's the confusing part. Because it's _familiar_. Watching into his eyes feels like staring back at herself in the mirror every morning – the same loneliness, the same idea of being lost and unloved no matter how many people are around you.

"You're an orphan too."

She doesn't need a reply – now that she knows, she can see it written all over his face anyway. He instead gives her a soft smile, almost impish – they're so caught up in the moment that both of them are startled by the tiny cough behind his back. He offers her a chuckle and a raised eyebrow, both lacking in confidence, before turning around to face no other than Roland, proud as a peacock with his hands behind his back.

"Emma, you said we'd dance!"

And, just like that, the charm is broken as Killian lets go of her hand at last, bowing to her before stepping back. Even as she flashes a grin to Roland and puts her hand to his tiny shoulder, her eyes search for Killian in the crowd – he glances at her over his shoulder one last time, with a smile and a nod, before disappearing. She gulps and focuses back on the child in front of her.

"Hey! Where were you when I was dancing with the awful ones?"

"They weren't competition. He is."

She's so baffled by his answer that she can only gape at him at first, before bursting into laughter. The tension in her shoulders finally vanishes, and she relaxes in the boy's embrace as they awkwardly sway to the sound of the music.


End file.
